


One More Thing

by vampireisthenewblack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Derek Crying, Derek Never Left, Established Relationship, Evil Peter Hale, Housework, Hypnotism, M/M, Masturbation, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mindfuck, Non-Consensual Filming, Non-Consensual Hypnotisim, Post-Season/Series 03A AU, Teen Wolf kink meme, Voyeurism, boys crying, brief appearances by Isaac and Danny, psychological fuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:23:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampireisthenewblack/pseuds/vampireisthenewblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles finds video of himself doing things he doesn't remember doing on Peter's laptop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daughter_of_Scotland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daughter_of_Scotland/gifts).



> For the Teen Wolf Kink Meme prompt by Caliena found [here](http://tnw-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/4905.html?thread=637737#t637737).
>
>> Peter manages to put Stiles under hypnosis and makes him do things.
>> 
>> Not just sexual acts, but humiliating things or maybe just cleaning his apartment - whatever he wants.
>> 
>> And sometimes he films it.
>> 
>> One day, Stiles finds the films.
> 
> I went with literal, real-world hypnotism, due to not really having the energy to figure out what Peter was doing to Lydia in S2 canon. But I didn't do any research, and I'm relying on what I've seen on TV and ignoring the fact that Mythbusters totally busted this kind of shit. Fiction, yay!
> 
> Caliena, I'm not sure this is quite what you intended, but the prompt implied (to me) heavy non-con. I do hope you don't hate it *bites nails*
> 
> venis_envy, thank you for all the things.

"Dibs," Stiles yells when Isaac opens a desk drawer and pulls out a laptop. "That thing'll have the werewolf equivalent of the bestiary on it, right? I want it." 

Peter's been gone three months. Derek was the one who called it, said Peter wouldn't just leave without a word and that they had to assume he was dead. Now they're cleaning out his apartment. 

"Right," Derek says, his hand sliding around Stiles' waist as he passes. "It'll be encrypted or something, though. Good luck with that."

"Oh my god. Are you seriously questioning my skills, dude? I'm hurt." 

Derek leers at him, backtracks, just to kiss him in the place that makes him squirm, just below his ear. "I'm not questioning your skill at all." 

Stiles shoves him away. "Pervert. Not those skills. I can get into this thing. Trust me." 

"Whatever you say, Stiles. Peter was careful. That thing's nothing more than an oversized paperweight without him." Derek pulls him close and kisses his hair, and then he disappears, back into the kitchen, where the girls are packing things into boxes to donate.

* * *

Stiles calls Danny as soon as he gets home.

"You've gotta do it here," Stiles says, when Danny suggests he drop it off. "Derek wants to make sure his uncle's stuff is respected, you know? Wants me to keep an eye on it."

Hours later, Danny sits back in Stiles' desk chair and lets out a breath. "I'm in."

Stiles jerks awake from a doze, and practically shoves Danny away from the computer. "I owe you, man. Anything. Just name it."

Danny swings his backpack onto his shoulder. "Yeah. Whatever."

Stiles barely sees him go.

* * *

Peter's file system is almost obsessive compulsive in its logic. Stiles finds what he's looking for almost immediately, transfers it to the cloud so they can all access it when they need it, then starts exploring.

He looks for porn first—Stiles can't help wondering at Peter's tastes—but finds nothing. Then he stumbles across a folder with his own name on it.

No one else has their own folder. Just Stiles. He's nervous, at first, his heart in his throat, and he considers not clicking. Considers calling Derek, asking him if he knows why Peter would have a folder on his computer with Stiles' name on it.

His curiosity gets the better of him, and he opens it.

There's four video files inside, named with the dates they were created. He starts with the earliest, double clicks, and waits for it to open.

He finds himself looking at his own face. Video-Stiles is staring straight ahead, not at the camera, and his face is slack, and his eyes are unfocused.

"Hello, Stiles."

The voice comes from the laptop speakers. It's tinny, faint, but definitely Peter. Stiles stares in horror as the image of him on the screen blinks and then focuses on the man holding the camera.

* * *

_"Hi, Peter."_

_"I'm going to ask you to do something for me, Stiles. Is that okay?"_

_Stiles' face is blank, his expression relaxed. "Yeah."_

_"Good, Stiles. I'd like you to get down on your hands and knees and scrub my kitchen floor. Are you happy to do that?"_

_The boy nods his head._ _"_ _Yeah._ _"_

* * *

Stiles hits the space bar on the keyboard. "What the fuck?" he says out loud. Stiles wouldn't get down on his knees and scrub his own kitchen floor. That's what mops are for, but the blank expression on the utterly pliant version of himself on the screen, and the fact that he can't remember any of this ever happening, suggests he wasn't himself.

He's tempted to text Derek, even reaches for his phone, thinking to ask if Peter knew how to hypnotize people—because Stiles can't imagine any other way he'd agree to do Peter's housework.

He stops himself. He presses the space bar to continue the video.

* * *

_"You'll find everything you need under the sink," Peter says, and Stiles gets up off the couch. Peter reaches out, clamping down on his wrist, stopping him. "One more thing, Stiles," Peter says. "You're going to find scrubbing the floor_ very _arousing. You're going to want to come, and the only way to do that is to keep scrubbing. Everything about scrubbing that floor is going to be the hottest thing you've ever done. Do you understand?"_

_Stiles turns and nods, a pink flush spreading over his cheeks._

_"You're thinking about it, aren't you?" Peter says. "Thinking about how hot it's going to be to scrub my floor."_

_Stiles nods, and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He licks his lips. "Can I? Please?" he asks, and glances toward the kitchen. His breath is quicker, his chest rises and falls rapidly. "God."_

_"Of course. But why don't you take your clothes off first? You don't want to get them dirty, do you?"_

_Stiles shrugs off his shirt, kicks off his shoes, removes the rest of his clothing._

* * *

Stiles watches in shock as the version of himself on screen strips naked.

He knows that there's no way he wasn't hypnotized in some way, because he'd never take his boxers off in front of creepy Uncle Peter, especially with a boner like that. Even on the video, Stiles can see precome welling up at the tip of his dick, apparently just from the thought of doing housework.

Stiles knows he should call Derek, knows that if Derek knew what Peter had done, if Peter was still alive, he'd kill him. Stiles has no question about that. But Peter is long gone, probably dead already, and Stiles has to know how this ends.

* * *

_Peter follows with the camera as Stiles walks to the kitchen, kneels down under the sink and pulls out bucket and brush and a bottle of floor cleaner, and minutes later, drops down to hands and knees on the floor and starts to scrub._

_He pants and gasps, wet to the elbows, letting out a moan and a full body shiver every time he thrusts the brush into the bucket. At one point he straightens up, lets water from the bucket pour off the brush, down over his twitching erection, and then scrubs at the floor in quick, erratic bursts of motion._

* * *

Stiles has never filmed himself jerking off, and there's no way he'd ever suggest it when he's with Derek, so he's got no real idea what he looks like when he's close to coming, or what he sounds like, but the version of him on-screen, flushed from activity, voice wrecked and desperate, seems like it could be pretty close. And he's hard—real Stiles, not the one on the screen, scrubbing Peter's kitchen floor.

He knows that what he's watching is abuse or molestation or exploitation, or, holy crap, legally it probably comes under the umbrella of child pornography, because Stiles is most definitely underage, and his father would freak, not to mention what Derek would do or how he'd react, but Stiles can't help but be aroused by watching himself, onscreen, so close to coming it's not funny.

Even if he's close to coming because he's naked and cleaning Peter's floor.

By the time the Stiles on the video arches up, hands pressed flat to the slick, shiny linoleum of Peter's kitchen floor, cock jerking and spilling untouched, Stiles has his dick in his hand and is steadily stroking it.

He hasn't yet come as the video ends with an eerie, "Good boy, Stiles. Well done," from Peter, and he's still staring at the frozen image of himself naked and wet on his hands and knees when his phone chimes with a text.

He checks it one handed. It's a quick message, telling him Derek's on his way over, so he stops what he's doing, zips up his jeans, quickly shoves a USB drive into the laptop and copies the entire 'Stiles' folder onto it before deleting it completely from the laptop.

* * *

"Did I interrupt something?" Derek asks, when he's barely three steps into the room.

"What?" Stiles shakes his head. "No. No, you didn't. I was pretty much doing nothing. Thinking about going to bed."

Derek's nostrils flare, and he takes a couple more steps across the room, then drops to his knees beside the chair Stiles is sitting in. He leans close, inhaling, as his hands close on Stiles' waist. "Smells like I interrupted something." He tugs at the button of Stiles' jeans, drags the zipper down. "You didn't even come." He looks up. "Were you waiting for me?"

"Oh. Yeah." Stiles nods. "Waiting for you. Are you gonna—?"

Derek grins and pulls Stiles' dick out of his pants, and it never really went soft in the first place, but it's rock hard now, and Derek takes it into his mouth.

Stiles twists his fingers into Derek's hair, but he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. He loves when Derek sucks his dick, but all he can think about is himself, naked on Peter's kitchen floor, crying out as he comes untouched from scrubbing linoleum.

* * *

It's a couple of days before Stiles gets the time alone to reexamine Peter's video files. This time, he pays attention to the time stamp file names, because he wants to know when this happened.

The first one, the one Stiles has already seen, is dated six months ago, not long after he and Derek stopped pulling each others pigtails and started dating.

The second is a couple of weeks after the first. He double clicks on it, with no idea what he's going to see.

At first it's the same as the last, hypno-Stiles glassy eyed and blank faced, then Peter reminds him of the last time, when he came on the kitchen floor just from scrubbing it.

The Stiles on-screen blushes and smiles, palming his cock through his jeans.

* * *

_"What do you want more than anything, Stiles?" Peter asks._

_"To come," Stiles grins, hand on his crotch, squeezing and rubbing his dick._

_Peter chuckles. "Bigger than that. Less immediate."_

_"Derek," Stiles says, without hesitation. "I want Derek."_

_"But you've been dating, what, a month now? Six weeks? You've already got Derek."_

_"Five weeks, three days. But he won't fuck me."_

_Peter makes a pleased noise. "So what you want more than anything, is for Derek to fuck you. Why is that so important to you?"_

_"Yeah." Stiles' breath is quick, his cheeks flushed. "I just want to feel him inside. I want to be full of him. I want to come while he's in me."_

_"Why don't you take your clothes off, Stiles?"_

_Stiles stands up off the couch, strips off all his clothes, and slowly strokes his cock._

* * *

There's something about the way he stripped off in front of Peter as though it was nothing that Stiles finds disturbingly hot. He's aroused, but he feels dirty, because he's watching himself doing those things technically against his will because there's no way he would have done them if he hadn't been hypnotized, if Peter hadn't been fucking with his mind.

So far, Peter hasn't touched him, though Stiles' heart beats hard in his chest as he waits to see what's going to happen next.

* * *

_"When you crouch on the floor, Stiles, it's going to feel like you're sitting on Derek's dick."_

_Stiles sinks down to his knees on the hardwood floors of Peter's living room._

_"You know it's not real, you know Derek's not here, but it feels as if you're sinking down, slowly, on his cock."_

_Stiles gasps, holding himself up with one hand pressed to the floor in front of himself, slowly lowering himself onto nothing. He reaches behind himself, his mouth drops open, and his eyes go very wide as he looks up at Peter. "Oh my god."_

_"You can feel it, can't you?"_

_Stiles nods, pushes down further and moans. Then he tips his head back and sinks all the way to the floor. Precome oozes out, dribbles down the length of his hard cock, and he wraps his hand around it and squeezes._

_"How does it feel, Stiles?"_

_Stiles whimpers and moves, rising up an inch and pressing down again._ _"_ _Feels real. Warm and slippery and so fucking big... Oh fuck._ _"_ _He starts to fuck himself on thin air, gripping his cock tightly, moaning and twisting his body._

* * *

Stiles watches with horror and awe and want. He wants to remember it, he wants to know how it felt, because Derek still won't fuck him. He pulls his cock out of his jeans, starts stroking at the same time as the version of himself on his laptop screen, and he comes at almost the same time, filling his hand a split second after the first streak of come paints a line on Peter's hardwood floor.

* * *

"Fuck me?" Stiles pants, as Derek wraps his hand around both their cocks and starts to stroke. Stiles hasn't been able to get the last video out of his head, and his dad is doing a graveyard and now is the perfect time because they can make as much noise as they like. "Please."

Derek grunts, his hand tightening on both their dicks. He knees Stiles' thighs apart, settles between them. "Not until April. I thought you were okay with that." He moans and starts to move his hips, thrusting against Stiles' dick, fucking into the circle of his fist.

"Don't wanna wait." Stiles arches up, spreads his legs further, like an invitation. He writhes and clutches at Derek desperately. "Want to feel you in me, Derek. I wanna be full of you. Please just fuck me, I need you in me, please."

"Shh, Stiles," Derek breathes, leaning down over Stiles, pressing his lips to Stiles' mouth, pressing down on him so he can't move. "I'm gonna take care of you, okay? Let me look after you."

Stiles whines, desperately wanting to feel what he felt in that video, wanting to remember, feeling cheated because he doesn't.

* * *

_"Do you want to feel Derek in you again, Stiles?" Peter asks._

_Stiles nods. "Yeah."_

_"Good."_

_Peter sets the camera down and bends in front of Stiles on the couch, cups his face in his hand._ _"_ _Close your eyes,_ _"_ _he says, and Stiles does._ _"_ _Good boy. Now, when you open your eyes, Stiles, and you look at me, you're going to see Derek, do you understand? And when I speak, you're going to hear Derek's voice. And when you look around at the apartment, you're going to believe that you're at the loft, with Derek, alone._ _"_

* * *

Stiles' heart stops when he watches the version of himself on the screen nod. His fingers twitch, and he hits the space bar. He sits and stares at the frozen scene before him with his heart in his throat and his lungs feeling as though they're going to burst.

He knows without watching, what's going to happen.

This video is dated a week or so before anyone realized they hadn't seen Peter in a while.

He should call Derek. He should tell Derek what he found, what he's been watching, what Peter did to him.

He should tell Derek that Peter probably fucked him.

It's going to kill Derek. He's going to lose his mind, and maybe, maybe that'll be the end. Maybe he'll think Stiles wanted it. Knew about it. Chose to let Peter touch him. Maybe Derek won't want Stiles at all after that.

Stiles needs to know for sure before he tells Derek something he can never take back.

* * *

_"Open your eyes," Peter says._

_Stiles opens his eyes. Immediately, his face lights up._

_"Who am I?" Peter asks._

_Stiles snorts. "A grumpy werewolf who's apparently lost what little mind he once had."_

_Peter smiles. "Where are we?"_

_Stiles gives him a quizzical look. "The loft? What is this, Derek? What's going on?"_

_"That's right, Stiles. And we're alone, aren't we."_

_Stiles lifts an eyebrow. "Yeah. And?" Then both eyebrows shoot up. "Oh. Oh. Alone. Right." The first eyebrow twitches. "You and me, some rare alone time. What are we going to do?"_

_"I want you," Peter says._

_Stiles holds his arms out to the sides. "Yours for the taking. So take me."_

_Peter kneels between Stiles' thighs, pulls him down into a kiss. "Oh, I intend to."_

* * *

Bile rises up in Stiles' throat as he watches himself be kissed by Peter. It's obvious that he believes he's with Derek, but it still makes him feel dirty, like he cheated, and maybe just watching this is cheating.

Still, he doesn't stop, doesn't stop the video, even though he knows he should get Derek here.

He watches with a sickening kind of fascination as Peter turns hypno-Stiles over on the couch, opens him up slow, really really slow, on his fingers. Stiles watches himself take three of Peter's fingers, moaning and writhing like a whore, begging to be fucked, and the whole time, calling Peter ‘Derek'.

Stiles is hard. As he watches himself being raped—because he can't possibly consent while he's hypnotized, despite what it might look like—his arousal grows, but it's twisted, because it's coupled with the taste of sick in his mouth, and shame that this happened to him. He's conflicted, because part of him hopes it stops, that he came to his senses before Peter could go further, but another part, a part that's deep inside where it's darkest, is rooting for Peter to stop fingering the kid on the couch and put his cock in him.

Finally, Peter takes his fingers out of the whimpering boy, helps him turn back over onto his back. Peter unzips his pants, pulls out his dick.

Stiles has seen Derek's dick more times than he can count. Back then he'd seen it plenty, too. Still, Stiles watches himself reach out, wrap his fingers around it, try to pull it toward his ass. "Love your dick, Derek," he moans. "Put it in me."

That's when Stiles' dinner decides to come back up.

He slams the lid of the laptop shut on the way to the bathroom, and just gets there in time to empty his stomach, retching over and over again, until there's nothing more to come up.

He doesn't want to see anymore. He knows he doesn't remember, but he can almost feel Peter's long fingers inside him. The image of his rim stretched wide on three digits is seared on the inside of his eyelids. But he still doesn't know for sure.

He opens his laptop. The video is paused on a frame with Stiles' knees pulled into his chest, his head flung back, his neck a long arch. He clicks on the tracking bar at the bottom, skipping through without playing because he doesn't think he can bear to hear himself.

Every skip makes his stomach lurch again. Peter did fuck him, every frame showing Peter's cock deep inside Stiles, or slick and shining as he pulls back. And Stiles' face, every expression is pleasure, ecstasy, his hand tugging on his dick, then a long streak of come up his chest.

Stiles keeps skipping through, because apparently Peter wasn't done with him. Stiles sees himself flipped over again, and this time sees everything, his hole stretched wide around Peter's dick, and then when Peter comes, he pulls out half way through, shooting his last spurts right onto Stiles' hole then fucking back into him at the end.

That's when Stiles closes the video down. There's one more file there, but this time, his morbid curiosity isn't enough. He shuts down his laptop, turns off all the lights, and climbs into his bed, fighting the urge to get in the shower and scrub until it's all gone.

Because it happened months ago, but Stiles feels freshly violated.

* * *

Derek knows something is wrong. He can hear it in Stiles' heartbeat as it thunders in his chest. Stiles knows he can smell it. He can't bear to be touched, not by Derek, because every kiss or caress reminds him that Derek isn't the only one to have touched him like this, reminds him that Peter had more of him than Derek ever has, and he can't help feeling like he betrayed Derek, like Derek will reject him when he finds out.

Derek sits on the edge of the windowsill, his eyes on Stiles. Stiles is on the bed, knees drawn up, and he's had plenty of practice lying to his father, but he can't lie to Derek, he can't hide his body's betrayal.

"It's something," Derek says, in response to Stiles' insistence that he's fine, there's nothing going on. He pushes away from the window, gets onto the bed, and shoves his nose into the space between Stiles' neck and shoulder. "You're afraid," Derek breathes. "Your heart is racing, but that's not all. Something scared you. What?"

Stiles stubbornly shakes his head.

Derek huffs in frustration and pushes away, slips off the bed and paces the room. "I won't let anything touch you," he mutters. "Don't know why you won't trust me." He walks back and forth, covering every inch of Stiles' bedroom, nostrils flaring, eyes flicking over everything as if he's searching for clues.

He stops outside Stiles' closet.

Stiles' heart skips a beat, and Derek flicks his eyes back. They flash with something that might be triumph, and then he yanks open the closet door.

There, at the bottom, at the back, on the floor under piles of clothing, shoes, and lacrosse gear, Derek finds Peter's laptop.

The look Derek gives Stiles is pure terror. "What?" he says. "What did you find? How did you get into it? What's on it?"

"Danny," Stiles says. "But it's nothing. Your family's library. It's in the dropbox. There's more there than the Argent's ever had." Stiles can't force himself to be calm. There's nothing left on the computer, nothing that will expose him, but still, he can't relax, he can't calm his heartbeat. "There's nothing else on it."

There's a horrified scowl on Derek's face, and he flips the lid of the computer open and dumps it on Stiles' desk, right beside his own closed laptop. He turns it on, waits for it to boot up.

"There's nothing," Stiles repeats, but Derek ignores him, scouring the hard drive, looking in every corner.

Eventually he gives up, slamming the lid hard enough to crack it, before turning to Stiles. "Tell me," he says, and his voice is broken. "Please, Stiles. Tell me."

In that moment, Stiles knows. What, exactly, he's not one hundred percent sure, but he knows that Derek knows something. "Did he..." Stiles begins, because his first thought is that Peter might have done the same thing to Derek once. Derek grew up with Peter, lived in the same house with him. If he was willing to do those things to Stiles, what would have stopped him from doing them to his own nephew? "Did he do something to you, Derek?"

Derek blinks, and then shakes his head, like a reflex. "There was something on there, wasn't there?" He speaks very carefully, each word weighed and measured, perfectly chosen. "What, Stiles. Tell me what you know."

There was no Derek folder. If there had been, Stiles would have opened it. He would have looked. There was nothing.

"Do you remember?" Derek says, and Stiles is so focused on Derek's expression, because it's horror and grief and fear, that it takes a few moments to sink in. "You remember, don't you."

But he doesn't remember. He doesn't remember any of it. He shakes his head. "He filmed it." Stiles' voice breaks, hot tears roll down his cheeks. "I watched. He made me think he was you, made me think you were finally giving me what I wanted."

Stiles waits for Derek to recoil, to shrink away from him, because Stiles is dirty and why would Derek ever want him now?

Derek turns his face away, shakes his head. "No. Why did you—? You should have—" He lifts his head, and his eyes are red-rimmed, his cheeks wet. "You weren't supposed to remember. You weren't ever supposed to remember."

"I don't," Stiles insists. "I don't remember any of it but it was right there on the fucking screen and you _knew_? You fucking knew about it? What did you—? Did you just hand me over? Did you let him—?"

" _No_ ," Derek moans, and his fingers are tipped with claws, and his jeans are bloody where they dig into his thighs. "He was all over you, I could smell it. His scent was on you, _in_ you, oh my god, Stiles, it broke me and I lost it. I wanted to kill you, both of you. But you denied it, and you weren't lying, and when I confronted Peter he confessed."

Stiles shakes his head. "I don't— I don't remember."

"I made him make you forget, Stiles." Derek looks down at his hands, at his blood stained fingers. "You were terrified of me, I scared you half to death. And you were—" He pushes himself to his feet, sits down on the edge of the bed and reaches out, but Stiles shrinks away. "Like this. You were like this." Derek drops his eyes, drops his hands. "I couldn't handle it. I made him make you forget, and then I dragged him out into the woods and I killed him."

Stiles' lungs squeeze tight, and he can't get a breath. "You killed him."

Derek won't look back up, but he nods.

"Good." Stiles sucks in a shuddering breath, lets it out slow. "But you let him fuck with my mind again. Have you got any idea—?"

"I couldn't— You couldn't look me in the eye. You thought I wouldn't want you, you thought there was something wrong with you—"

"He _fucked_ me," Stiles spits. "You wouldn't, and he did, and you still haven't and it's obviously not because you wanted to protect my precious fucking virginity because that's long gone, and I didn't even know until I watched those fucking videos and now I feel like—" He has to stop, to catch his breath, to try and calm his heart because it wants to beat clear out of his chest. "Now there's no reason to wait, so I figure you just can't bear the thought of it, so why are you even here? Pity? Guilt?"

Derek lifts his head. "No. You didn't know. You went back to normal. I wanted to forget. I just wanted it to go back to how it was, to how we were, and it did, we did."

"Until I found the videos, Derek."

"Show me."

Stiles stares at him, because he can't believe Derek would ever want to see that. But he's serious, his eyes holding Stiles' steadily, and then he turns his head to Stiles' laptop on the desk.

Slowly, Stiles reaches under the bed, slips his hand beneath the boxspring and the mattress, pulls out the USB drive that is the only place the videos exist. "You might as well go. Just take them." He holds the drive out at arms length. "You're never going to want to look at me again."

Derek shakes his head. "This isn't your fault. Nothing is going to change the way I feel." Still, he takes the drive, turns, and plugs it into Stiles' laptop.

Stiles can't bear to look. He slides down, throws his arm over his eyes, and he waits to hear Peter's voice.

It's Derek he hears first.

"There's four files," he says. "What else did he do to you?"

Stiles tries to laugh, but it comes out a hoarse croak. "He told me that scrubbing his floor was the hottest thing I'd ever done." He wonders how he could have watched that and been aroused. In hindsight, Stiles feels sick. "It sure looked like it."

"What else?" Derek's voice has no inflection.

Stiles keeps his arm firmly over his eyes. He doesn't want to see Derek's face right now. "Convinced me I could feel you fucking me, even though I knew you weren't there."

Derek is ominously silent.

"He never touched me. Either of those times. The next one, the third file. That's when it happened. That's when he told me to see you."

"It's the same day," Derek says, very quietly. "That's the day I killed him. What about the fourth? The dates on the file name. It's the same day. What else did he do to you that day?"

"I didn't look," Stiles whispers. "I couldn't."

Derek says nothing, but there's an ominous sound of keystrokes, and then Peter's voice drifts from the speakers.

"Such a good boy, Stiles. You did so well."

Stiles jerks his arm off his face and sits bolt upright. There he is on the screen again, this time laid out lengthways on Peter's couch, completely naked, his dick soft against his belly, the skin of his stomach smeared with something shiny and slick. He's got one leg pulled up, and his inner thighs are just as messy. "I love you, Derek," he whispers, as he gazes up, presumably at Peter, and then his eyes drift closed.

"Oh my god," Stiles says from the bed. Derek stares at the screen, his entire body tense. "Turn it off, please."

Derek shakes his head and keeps staring.

* * *

_"That's right," Peter says. "Now, Stiles, when you open your eyes, you're not going to see Derek. You're going to see what's real, and you're going to realize what you've done."_

_Stiles frowns, and then opens his eyes._

_Immediately, he twitches and recoils, eyes flicking around the room, then tries to find something to cover himself with. "Peter? Jesus. What—?" He hooks his jeans from the floor, starts to pull them on. He drags his hand through the mess on his stomach, and stares at his fingers. "No." He looks up, at Peter, at the camera, shakes his head. "What did you do?" Then he gets up, and launches himself at Peter. "What did you do?"_

_"Sleep," Peter says, and Stiles drops to his knees like a stone, eyes shut and face blank. "Good boy, Stiles." Peter walks up to him, runs his fingers through Stiles' hair, tipping his head back to look down into his face. "You're going to forget all of this, Stiles. You're going to go to Derek, and he's going to smell me all over you, but you're not going to have a clue what he's talking about. Do you understand?"_

_Stiles nods his head._

_"Good." Peter drops to his knees, takes Stiles' face in his hands. "There's just one more thing."_

* * *

Derek hits the space bar and sits, staring at the screen. "That's what happened." He spins around in the chair. "I never thought to ask why. I don't know if he was hoping I'd kill you, or that you'd kill me to protect yourself."

"How about he was just fucked up, and evil, and I'm glad he's dead." Stiles slumps to the floor beside the bed, wraps his arms around his pulled up knees, drops his head down. "I feel..." he whispers. "I feel like I want to wash him off me. Like I can feel it on me. His scent. Like you can smell it." He lifts his head. "Have you been able to smell it, all this time? Is that why you won't—"

"No," Derek says, the word spilling out fast. He drops off the chair, and then he's got his arms around Stiles, his lips pressing kisses into Stiles' hair. "It's gone. Long gone. I don't think about him when I'm with you, he's got nothing to do with us, Stiles. Nothing."

"Except that he fucked me first, and now I know, and I don't remember it but I've seen it, and it might as well have happened yesterday because I've still got to process it now." His cheeks are wet again. His eyes are stinging. "You might have dealt with it already. You've had longer than me. I've got to deal with it myself."

"Okay," Derek says. He presses his lips to Stiles' mouth, soft and chaste. "Just tell me what you need."

Stiles looks up. "I need him not to have been the last one inside me, Derek." He twists his fingers into Derek's shirt, pulling tight, desperate for Derek to just make it go away. The image of himself being fucked by Peter is imprinted on his mind, he can feel it in him, burning like an infection. "I need you to fuck me. Make it so all I see is you."

Derek swallows hard. "Okay," he whispers, and his voice breaks. "Okay, Stiles."

* * *

Stiles doesn't remember when this happened before. He's got no physical memory of it, only flashes of a computer screen in his mind, a dark haired boy on a couch, looking up at a man he hates like he loves him.

So he keeps his eyes open, keeps them on Derek, watches Derek's face as he opens Stiles up with his fingers. He tries not to think about how this isn't the first time anyone's done it with intent.

At some point, it's not hard to forget, when Derek's kissing him, fucking him with three fingers, and Stiles is crying out, clinging to Derek, begging.

"You want me inside?" Derek breathes, his own voice harsh and broken. "Are you ready for me, Stiles?"

"Yes." Stiles nods, gulping back the desperate cries he wants to let out. "Please."

He keeps his eyes open until the moment Derek begins to push into him, his cock stretching him more than three fingers ever could, and it hurts, it burns, and Stiles squeezes his eyes shut tight, and breathes.

He keeps them closed, even when Derek's all the way inside, even as he adjusts. He doesn't think of anything else, or anyone else. He inhales Derek's smell, listens to the way he breathes, feels Derek filling him up, feels Derek deep inside.

"Are you okay?" Derek asks, his fingers stroking down the side of Stiles' face, thumb tracing his lower lip. "Stiles. Open your eyes."

Stiles lets a smile spread over his face, because this is perfect, and then he looks.

Instead of Derek above him, he sees Peter, and Stiles freezes, tenses, gasps. There's a look of concern that Stiles never saw on Peter's face before but it's Peter, and he shifts, his cock moving inside Stiles.

Stiles claws at Peter's chest and screams.

* * *

_Peter drops to his knees, takes Stiles' face in his hands. "There's just one more thing, Stiles."_

_The boy cocks his head, listening, paying attention. He doesn't open his eyes._

_"When he does finally give you what you want. When he's inside you,_ every _time he's inside you, you'll only see me, Stiles. Do you understand?"_

_The boy nods once. "Yes, Peter," he says._

_Peter smiles, and slides his thumbs down over Stiles' cheekbones. "Good boy, Stiles. Good boy."_

**Author's Note:**

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